


Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not

by coveredinsnow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Lestrade is not amused, M/M, Post Reichenbach, not finished and never will be sorry, only really slash if you've got your goggles on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinsnow/pseuds/coveredinsnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock's death pissed off a lot of people, and he's left with rather a big mess to clear up. I wasn't fast enough for series 3 (quite a feat of achievement if you think about it), so there won't be any more updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty Visitors

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work... ever. So I'm very excited, and feedback would be appreciated. 
> 
> This chapter may get a little far-fetched, mainly to satisfy my urge to give Moriarty a big slap in the face; however, none of my personal Reichenbach after-plot will feature much after this chapter, or even much Reichenbach at all, in an attempt to keep with the times once the next series comes out. Just a little about how the characters deal with the events of The Fall once they learn the truth, and how they deal with Sherlock for his absence.
> 
> I'm intending this to be a story about John and Sherlock's relationship. The gradual build up of trust post-Reichenbach, the amazing bromance, and the eventual shift into something more.
> 
> If this goes well, I'd like to turn this into a series. So I really, really hope you enjoy!

It was early. Too bloody early.

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade sighed, and pushed a hand through his wiry hair as the brunt of the British press jumped down his throat with more flashbulbs that was decent at 7am on a Monday morning.

Three years. Three bloody years it had taken him to elbow his way back up to his position, and for what, exactly? Why the hell had he bothered? One month in and he had already fought through three weeks with only two hours sleep a night, up to his neck in paperwork and hysterical Daily Mail readers, and there was no guiding light on the horizon. A triple homicide. Welcome back.

 For only the second time in his career, Lestrade felt truly lost. It was with a familiar clench in his stomach that the D.I was forced to accept why nothing felt the same, why he was in over his head one month after his promotion; Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes. Or lack thereof.

“Detective Inspector, how much headway have you made in actually _finding_ the killer _?”  
_

“As I’ve _just said_ ” Lestrade half-growled, probably not trying as hard as he should to keep the bite out of his voice, “we’re doing everything we can to find the link between the victims. Again, we urge anyone who thinks they might have spotted a realistic connection to contact us.” He felt the words burn his throat as they came out; he was turning to the _public_ for help one month into his new/old job.

“Yes, Inspector,” the journalist drawled, as if he were placating a five year old. Lestrade felt his hackles rise, not helped by the ‘calming’ hand Sally Donovan placed on his shoulder. She, of course, had kept her position; good little girl, running to the men in charge when her bitter, jealous nose had sniffed something suspicious. She hadn’t been promoted, though- still in the same position, three years on. Lestrade felt a slightly vicious sense of satisfaction at that.

“What I meant, Inspector, is do you actually have any idea as to who the killer is? What he, or indeed she as you have still neglected to tell us even their _gender_ , might look like? Where they might be from?”

He looked around the room as he said this, eliciting some “Yeah!”s and “Come on, Inspector!”s from the crowd. Lestrade resisted the urge to grind his teeth. It was a fair question. Of course it was. It was also the very last one he wanted to answer.

“Well, investigations are on-going-“  
“So you’re saying it could be anyone? On the tube? Our next door neighbours?” The journalist- Daily Mail again, he realised with a sinking heart- uttered a scornful laugh. “You mean the police have _no idea_ what’s going on?”  
  
  
Ah, fuck it.

“Yes. That is EXACTLY what I’m saying. We have no leads, nothing to work on and your Grandma might be a serial killer. Go and write about that.”  
  
He got ready for the shouting and blinding flashes from the pack of hyenas in the press room, as Sally put her head in her hands and Collins, his new boss, gave a long suffering sigh. But there weren’t any. There weren’t any, because everyone in the room was suddenly checking their phones. He felt his own buzz against his leg, and glanced around to find Sally pulling hers out of her pocket. He felt a strange, fluttery sensation in his chest as he reached for his Nokia and pressed “new messages”. He heard Donovan gasp, and his own breath caught in his throat as he read the single word staring at him from his phone screen:  
  
 **WRONG**

*******

Twenty minutes later Lestrade was sat in the corner of Costa, watching his hands shake as he gulped down his latte, ignoring the way it scalded his mouth in favour of attempting to think rationally. Donovan dropped into the seat opposite him, an angry flush to her cheeks and a bottle of still water in her hand.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” she whispered, poorly suppressing the anger in her voice. When she had got the same text as Lestrade, and no doubt as everyone else in that room, she had slammed her fist on the desk and announced the press conference over before storming out.

 In a daze, Lestrade had followed her, not entirely convinced he wasn’t dreaming. There was no-one who would understand the significance of what had just happened in the office, so they had quickly opted for a coffee. He wondered if he should be concerned about rumours; he caught Anderson shooting him a murderous glance on the way out, but it was no secret in the Met how strained his and Sally’s relationship was. She still hadn’t quite forgiven him for being wrong, and he’d be damned if he was going to forgive her for being right. He’d rather date John.

John… God, he should call. What if the same joker got hold of him? He didn’t know if he would be able to deal with any false hope-  
“Greg?” Donovan demanded, snapping him out of his thoughts. He resented the use of his first name; ever since he had been sacked, it seemed she no longer deemed him worthy of his title. First-name terms it was, then. Resisting the urge to remind her that he was in charge again, Lestrade gritted his teeth and stirred his coffee.

“I don’t know, do I?” he muttered. “Some sick bastard’s idea of a joke.”

“A _joke_?” Sally hissed, leaning towards him. She stank of Anderson’s cologne; he tried not to think about that. “Some persistent ‘sick bastard’ that would have to be. He’d have to get everyone’s mobile in the room- that’s, what, forty numbers, all unconnected?  Plus he’d have to find out that the Freak used to do that in the first place, and we never told anyone about it so we could maintain some pretence of a security system; only us two knew, and from you’re expression I’m going to hazard a guess that this isn’t your attempt at an early April Fools.”

“Fine!” Lestrade snapped. “What’s your idea, then?”

“I… I, I don’t-”

“Right. Thought not. So unless we’re going to start entertaining the possibility that Sherlock Holmes has resurrected himself in time for Easter, a sick bastard it is.”

Lestrade tried to ignore the pang he felt in his chest as he discounted that possibility, draining his coffee and scraping his chair back across the grey tiles. He walked out the café with his head held high, leaving a seething Donovan to finish her mineral water; he waited until he was round the corner to get his phone out, reading and re-reading the second text that only he had been sent.

 **Are you being deliberately obtuse? How on Earth do you expect me to leave the safety of London in your hands if you keep on being so _stupid_? -SH**  
  
   
“A joke,” he murmured to himself, pressing the Nokia to his mouth and trying to slow the blood pounding in his ears. _Just a sick, frightening, badly timed joke._  
 He resisted the urge to throw his phone across the street. It would just bounce back, anyway.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Cold. The body’s way of telling the brain that the current temperature of its environment is unsatisfactory. Not dangerous. Not interesting. Not worthy of attention._  
   Despite repeating this over and over in his head like a mantra, Sherlock Holmes could not resist the urge to pull his coat tighter around himself and shift his face further into his scarf. He did, however, refrain from pulling his collar up; he had a distinctive enough figure as it was, without displaying that well known profile to any former-neighbours who might be watching from the windows along the street. Too often he ignored his own words; little old ladies, he reminded himself, were better than any CCTV cameras.

John had kept the flat. That was… good. Was it? Why was it good? His stomach felt warm, like after drinking hot soup _(not good, digestion slows down brain, hot means eating slowly)_ as he contemplated walking into his old flat, flopping into his old chair, sleeping on his old sofa. Irrational. Placing sentiment in objects and routine; foolish, inconvenient. Routine leads to bad habits and overlooking changes, sentiment leads to… well.

Maybe he should suggest a change of scenery to John? No… the tug he felt in his chest at that was too strong- more problems caused by defying than obeying. Anyway, John would want something to ground him. John didn’t have to think; he could take pleasure in his routines without worrying how much his mind would be clouded by a seventh cup of tea or the sports page in a newspaper.  Most likely he would _need_ his routines, for the first few days at least; he wasn’t an expert in the matter, but Sherlock was aware that people usually tried to retreat to normality when their lives were faced with an upset.  
  
And again, he wasn't an expert in the matter, but having your dead flatmate appear on your doorstep probably counted as one.

 

 He was forced to accept, at this point, that he was spending more time than was strictly necessary walking up this familiar street; he had taken four minutes and 53 seconds to walk past seven houses, and it was becoming ridiculous at best. _Walk faster dammit, do you want to be seen? Do you want MYCROFT to see you?_ That thought spurred him on, and it was with renewed vigour that he strode past the last few buildings and began to pick the lock of 221B, Baker Street.

 John had changed the locks- sensible, but irritating. At least he’d recognised the danger of a missing pair of house-keys. Some sense of self-preservation was always useful; he had often been told it was something he lacked.

It took him under a minute to pick the lock- slightly worrying, but not a pressing concern. There would be no need to fear burglars now that he was back. Again, he felt a foolish surge of warmth as that thought sunk in; he was back, back where he belonged, back with Billy and Mrs Hudson and John.

Although, Mrs Hudson was staying at her sister’s in Dorset for the week (maybe for the best, she still wasn’t quite stable after that minor stroke last October and he didn’t want to shock her) and there was a very real possibility that either her or John had thrown Billy out- so, really, he was back with John. He was slightly surprised when that did nothing to dampen his happiness or shake his certainty; he was home.

 With a contented sigh, he quietly slipped up the stairs; John was playing a violin CD _(Brandenburg concertos, Bach, year old CD- a Christmas present from his mother by request, she usually gets him jumpers. Well looked after but often played, there aren’t any scratches but there’s dust stuck to the inside and edge with skin oils. Interesting [why], he’s never expressed an interest in violin music before.)_ , and hadn’t heard him come in. Again, slightly worrying but no longer a pressing concern.

 He hovered a moment over the handle, then he reminded himself how stupid he was being. This was _his house._ He pushed the door open… and forgot how to speak.

  Just for a second. But it was one of the most unsettling moments in his life. He found himself utterly transfixed by John’s face, drinking in all the tiny little details; every new wrinkle, every different speck of colour in his eyes, the first signs of steely grey hair amongst the short-cropped blond on his head. But he wasn’t deducing. In fact, he got as close as he felt he could to not thinking.

Then there was a distant crash, and with a weary inevitability, his thoughts caught up with the world around him and he remembered how to talk.

 

“Good morning.”

It came out strangely breathless, and Sherlock took another moment to steady himself, glancing around the room. It was almost exactly as he’d left it. Well. Not at all, really, but to a normal observer it would look the same. The furniture hadn’t moved, the decor was the same (smiley face included), even Billy still held his place of honour on the mantel piece _(don’t smile at inanimate objects)_. But there were little things.

There was a significantly larger dent in John’s chair- much more sitting in his post-Sherlock lifestyle. The flat was tidier, as well. There weren’t endless stacks (stacks in the loosest sense) of paperwork encroaching upon John’s desk space anymore (John’s long-suffering sigh as he brushed the murder files off his laptop had been one of the things he missed most _(irrational)_ ), and from what he could see of the kitchen his lab equipment had given way to a toaster _(Christmas present from Harry, two years old)_ and a coffee grinder _(won in a raffle, John much prefers tea but often used, Lestrade’s a regular visitor)_. There was an inch of dust on the door handle to his bedroom.

That second had been enough to settle him, and Sherlock made another attempt at speaking.

“So…” _oh, for God’s sake-_ “I-” he struggled for something to say, but came up blank. Was this what people meant when they said ‘speechless’? How frustrating.

“I’m not dead.” _No, REALLY Sherlock?_ He almost winced at the obviousness of that statement. This wasn’t going how he’d pictured it. Not at all.

 He looked at John again, trying to actually make sense of what he was seeing this time. He wasn’t smiling. The look on his face showed nothing but shock, pure and simple. Sherlock registered the smashed china and wet carpet next to John’s feet _(tea, milk no sugar)_. A huge shock, then, John’s hands never shook under pressure; in fact they usually became firmer.

Then, and he could have kicked himself for not noticing sooner, he saw the cane. He was using a _cane_. Oh, John.  Why? His mind spun through the possibilities faster than he could keep track of, desperate to find an answer to this new, unsettling puzzle. Withdrawal from the army had caused it in the first instance, most likely the withdrawal from adrenaline and danger _(ha, I wish)_ had kick-started it again- almost out of habit, as if when the body was no longer needed to jump from rooftops it no longer saw the need to function at all. _(_ _Much like its owner.)_

The thought was unbidden and unexpected as it flashed across his mind, and he searched, puzzled, for what might have sparked it.  He took in the wrinkles and single grey hair again, looking for different evidence. Could it… Was it possible that… had he hurt John? He felt a sharp pain in his chest and he skittered away from that thought as if burnt, bringing him back again to the immediate situation. John still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t breathed even. Natural?

 Thirteen seconds since he had opened the door. No. Not natural. Sherlock found himself studying his shoes. _Why? Irrational._ Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to look up- something he would berate himself for later. While he hadn’t been counting on John as an immediate threat and was unlikely to be facing the other way when confronted with a deadly assassin, he felt there must be a significant flaw in his self-defence methods if a left-hook strong enough to send him flying into the doorframe could take him completely by surprise.

 

***

 

 _Ow._ Sherlock tried to move from where he was slouched against the wall, but abandoned the attempt immediately as the world span around him and his knees threatened to buckle. **_Ow._** His thoughts blurred as he struggled to remember what he was doing past the thick, angry pain that was clouding his mind. _Vision foggy. Movements sluggish. Mild concussion, and out for-_ hmm. How long had it been? He looked around, blinking to get rid of the haze in his vision. _Ow._ With another stab of pain in the back of his skull, Sherlock remembered the events of… earlier. Baker Street. He had gone back. He was out of hiding!

With the surge of relief came a flash of panic- where was he now, then? The floor was hard and cold. He was in a square room, approximately three by four metres- bare grey walls, and one metal door opposite him. A prison cell. He was in _prison?_   Oh, no, a police cell. Prison was much worse. But… why? What would the police- oh, of course. This concussion was disorientating.

  
   He was Sherlock Holmes, the fraud, the fake genius, kidnapper of children and serial killer and much, much more. The idiots still bought the fairy tale. Jim Moriarty was a spider… and now the whole world was his web. Even John. He noticed with dismay the pain that caused in his chest; he should keep an eye on that. He was out of hiding now, back on with the mask. A sickening lurch in his stomach- God, he was so _slow!_ **John.** His heart rate quickened and his hands became clammy; fear already, he really was out of practise…

 He’d counted on being around to protect John for the first few days, until he was sure the assassins had really gone; their contract ran out after three years, and he knew Moriarty wouldn’t renew it once Sherlock came back. That would be cheating, using the same trick twice. Worse, it would be _boring._ But what if he was wrong? There was always a chance when Moriarty was in the equation- John could be walking around now in mortal danger, and who was there to warn him? _Idiot._

  He tried to get up again, intending to bang on the door and demand his release, or that he saw John at least. He succeeded- but stopped himself. He didn’t care. _Remember? You DON’T CARE. It doesn’t matter what people think of you, it doesn’t matter what happens to your friends- no, no,_ **colleagues.** You’re Sherlock-sociopath-Holmes.

He took a deep breath and leant against the wall, trying to find that detached calmness he had spent so long perfecting. This was harder than he’d imagined it would be. It should be easy slipping back into old habits- good habits, ones that had protected the people around him until the arrival of John Watson and James Moriarty. It wouldn’t help John to have people know he worried. More likely it would get him another sniper tracking his every move. Caring was NOT an advantage.  
 

 He heard his brother’s words in his head, and resented every syllable.

 

                                                                                      ***

 

Eight hours, twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds. That was how long it took for the door to open.

He had remained in his position against the wall for the majority of that time, as moving caused a mini-avalanche inside his head. His jaw was aching, his back was sore and… was that hunger? Hm. Novel.

“You’re free to go now,” came a gruff voice from the door _(chain smoker for ten years, partial to scotch)_ , but by the time he brought his head up the source was gone. Puzzled, he stood- why would they just let him out? There wasn’t even anyone waiting for him.

His phone beeped in his pocket and he took it out warily. No-one had this number; for one thing it would rather compromise the point of going on the run.

**Decided to come and play? That was ambitious of you. Meet you at our old playground –Jim xx**

Ah.

 

                                                                                       ***

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock’s taxi pulled up in front of Carl’s pool.

  Getting out of the police station had been easy; far, far too easy. He hadn’t even seen any officers as he’d walked out. Moriarty’s resources were still extensive, then. Faking suicide then begging innocent to the public had treated him kindly, it seemed.

 He remembered the way his skin had crawled the first time he saw that smug face on television after the fall; “Actor Rich Brook tells the chilling story of how fake genius Sherlock Holmes ruined his life.” The press had welcomed him with open arms. At last they had someone willing to be interviewed and interrogated, someone who smiled for publicity shots and sucked up to journalists. Someone on whom they could pile sympathy, and watch him soak it up like a sponge. Oh yes, he had the papers under his thumb and they hadn’t got a clue.

  Sherlock hesitated a little outside the pool. He had absolutely no idea what he was getting himself into; a relatively new experience, and definitely not one he was enjoying. But being realistic, he knew Moriarty would tear the world apart to find him now he knew he was alive. Best get it over with.

  It was much the same as he remembered – not much cause for change in public baths. A typical smell of chlorine. Water. Nothing particularly worthy of remark.

  “Scenic, isn’t it?” came a call from across the room. He felt his hair stand on end at the soft Irish tones, as he finally succeeded in picking James Moriarty out from the shadows. He stepped forward, a sickly sweet smile on his face as his black eyes raked over Sherlock’s body.

“Oh, I agree.”

He stood his ground, calculating the distance between himself and the gun poking rather ostentatiously out of Moriarty’s trouser pocket.

“I thought you didn’t like getting your hands dirty?”

“Not usually, no, but I wasn’t about to come unprotected was I?” He almost whined, looking at Sherlock as if he’d failed some sort of test. As if he didn’t have fifty assassins ready to put a bullet in the back of his head. “And as always, for you my dear, I’m willing to make a little exception.” His grin widened, and he patted the gun as if it were a puppy and not a lethal weapon. Well. Maybe not a puppy. He probably cut up puppies.

“I must say, Sherlock, I’m quite pleasantly surprised.” He put his hands in his jacket pockets, rolling his head from side to side, never taking that disturbing grin from his face. “That was a very, very tall building. Verging on impressive, coming back from that. Shame about the scarf, though; I’ve always found blood stains so hard to get out.”

“It was a wrench, I admit, but a sacrifice I was willing to make given the circumstances.” He glanced around the room, frowning inwardly. He knew Moriarty liked to talk, but he did wish he’d get on with it. For once, he was finding it completely impossible to ascertain any of his motives. Why would he bring him here?

“I suppose you want to know how I did it?”

“Oh, not at all.” Moriarty laughed; the sound could probably curdle blood. “No, no, no, don’t ruin the magic. Don’t tell me yours, I won’t tell you mine. Much more fun that way.”

“Then-“ he shook his head. He didn’t want to get involved in another scheme. He was sick of having to watch his every move, always looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t bored, exactly… he just didn’t _want_ this anymore. Was it possible that he was actually making a sensible decision? Choosing safety over distraction for once? How _awful._

But… maybe he could do it. Just this once, mind. One thing he knew for certain; if this was just Moriarty’s way of gearing him up to tear him down again, he wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to be left alone. “Our game’s over, Jim. I’m not playing anymore.”

“What, just because you grazed your knee?” Moriarty pouted, shaking his head slightly. “Come on, Sherlock, you’re _back._ That’s a challenge if I ever saw one. Let’s see just how easily I can bring you crashing to the ground again, shall we?” He snorted. “That is, assuming you manage to get back up in the first place. The papers _love_ me.” He span around, his arms spread out above him.

“This is my world now, Sherlock. I’ve been spinning them fairy tales for so long I could bring down the Government with a single sentence. Your word against mine? Be sensible. They believed me over you when you were at your peak, the next _superman._ All it took was a little hint…a tiny idea.

“You will thank Sergeant Donovan for me, won’t you? She was invaluable. I didn’t even need to do anything with her; bitterness and jealousy are such gorgeous parasites. Just one niggling little doubt, that was all it took. Oh and you, of course, becoming so weak and fragile.” He smirked, giving Sherlock a knowing look.

He hated himself for it… but how could you not rise to that?

“What?” he snapped.

“Oh, you tried, Sherlock.” Moriarty carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Tried _so hard_ to be like your brother.” He smirked again- “To be like _me_. But trust me in this; if there’s one impressive thing about you, then surely it’s how _miserably_ you failed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know full well, Sherlock. I’m talking about _you_. You became corrupt. You allowed yourself to be… _tainted_ ,” he shivered, “by these stupid, ordinary people. And that was all I needed.” He was smiling sadly now, almost a pitying look on his face. That would not do. That would not do _at all._

“I still don’t know-“

“Your heart, Sherlock!” Moriarty yelled, his voice bouncing off the walls and the water, creating a terrifying cacophony of noise that made Sherlock's head throb. “You let three people into your heart, and it brought down your whole, glorious empire. Three people.” He moaned, pressing his hands to the sides of his head. “You just couldn’t do it, could you? You couldn’t stay separate. However hard you try to hide it I can read you like a book, and you will _never_ be me because you’re a bloody _romance novel._ ”

A _romance novel?_ Hardly. Moriarty obviously didn’t know as much as he gave himself credit for. He had three friends, at a push. He wasn’t a romance novel, not at all. Was He? _What?_

“I knew I wasn’t going to die,” he sneered, trying to regain some control over the situation. “I didn’t actually-“

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock.” Moriarty shook his head patronizingly, giving him a condescending smile. “You might have fooled the public. You might have fooled the Yard. You might even have fooled your friends, but do not think for _one second_ that you can fool me.”

“What do you mean?” came a quiet voice from the corner of the room. No. _No._

Two heads snapped in the direction of the sound, as a third figure emerged from the shadows.

“John,” Sherlock said, and he thought he did quite well to keep the tremor out of his voice, “What are you doing here? Get out, get out now!”

“What do you mean?” John called again, completely ignoring Sherlock. How had he found them here? It had just been a text, there was no way he could have been followed! But God, how he’d missed that voice…

Moriarty was watching John approach incredulously, shooting glances at Sherlock.

“Well, well, well. Your pet followed you!” He grinned at John. “How touching.”

“What. Did you _mean?_ ” John repeated, anger rippling through his voice; furious, but ruthlessly controlled.  Sherlock felt a spark of hope…

“Three people. You said he let three people into his heart and that was enough to bring him down. What were you talking about?”

“Hang on. Whoa whoa whoa, _hang on._ ”Moriarty looked positively gleeful now, delight spreading across his face. “You mean… he doesn’t even know?”

He laughed, taking a few steps towards to John. Sherlock instinctively moved closer with him.

“Don’t you know why he jumped, Johnny boy?”

“Well… yeah.” He looked uncertainly at Sherlock, but he thought he could detect something else in his expression. Something… off. What the hell was he up to?

“Because he was a fraud, right? He made up all those crimes to look good. And… he tried to kill himself because he was ashamed.”

“Oh, dear me, no!” Moriarty replied, mock shock colouring his features. “What would be the fun in ruining a fraud? Sherlock’s as real as I am. The only fake here is the lovely Rich Brook- and I’m still not feeling the appreciation of that joke,” he muttered to himself. “Rich Brook? Reichenbach? Anyone?” He sighed, as if disappointed by the lack of applause.

”Dear me, sexy, I thought you had him better trained that. And there I was thinking he must have half a brain, considering how much time you spend together!” He tutted, moving back to the other end of the pool. “Well, I grow tired of chit-chat, Johnny. Much better I _show_ you why your “fraud” had to die.”

What did he mean? No, what _could_ he mean. Look. Sherlock tried to keep a clear head as he glanced around the room, but he felt his heart thrumming in his chest and his hands were getting clammy again.

“Show me?” John sounded even more uncertain now, shifting on his feet as Moriarty continued to move away.

“The evidence. You crime-fighting types love that, don’t you?” He grinned, as if he’d made a clever joke. “What you wouldn’t give to have this piece, Sherlock.”

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small memory chip. Then he stepped back, and pulled something out of the shadows. Sherlock narrowly avoided gaping in disbelief; he allowed his eyes to widen fractionally at the sheer improbability of the object in front of him.

It was a projector. A sleek, expensive, miniscule one; the kind he’d only seen when he’d been dragged along to some of Mycroft’s more important meetings, to check for spies. It didn’t need a lead, and was small enough to fit into a jacket pocket, but with stunning picture quality. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

“What’s the point of being a master criminal movie villain,” Moriarty drawled, inserting the memory chip into the machine, “If you don’t get any cool gadgets? Best part of the job. Though, I must admit, watching you fall to your death is a particularly thrilling experience.” He gave a shark-like smile. “Never gets old.”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock was sure he was going insane, still completely nonplussed by the series of events.

“You didn’t think I’d come away without a trophy to show for my efforts, did you?”

The screen flickered up on the wall. A video was loading.

“One of the simplest things, installing cameras around the scene of a crime. Especially when you’re going to be there for the event.”

Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Breathing suddenly became far more difficult. _No._

“You miss the silliest things when you’re otherwise occupied.”

 

                                                                        ***

There were three cameras; one on the top roof of the building, one on the edge where he had finally jumped and one in Moriarty’s collar.

Sherlock felt horror creep through his body as the scene that had plagued his dreams for months played out in front of him, crystal clear on the wall. Trapped forever. Evidence of his darkest moments.

John could not see this. John thought he didn’t care. It was so much better that way.

Moriarty had retreated into the darkness to watch his handiwork, and Sherlock felt himself frozen to the spot even as John watched in shocked silence beside him.

Moriarty paused the film just after he shot himself in the head; it had stopped on Sherlock’s face, in his one unguarded moment.

“There!” Moriarty crowed, striding forward and gesturing at the screen. “That is the face of a man who knows he’s about to die.”

He turned the machine off.

“I would continue,” he said, looking round at John, who had not moved at all; he was staring at where the screen had been with wide eyes, but now he turned slowly towards Moriarty.

 “God knows I could watch this all day, but I believe you know the rest.

“You had no idea you were going to survive,” he sneered, turning to face Sherlock. “You were actually willing to give your life for those _idiots._ And where has that got you, exactly? Because you certainly don’t have their loyalty. They’ve all given up on you. You’re a _joke._ ”

Petty insults? Sherlock blinked. He could think of several directions this could have gone, but that… That wasn’t really a direction at all. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Moriarty was stalling.

He opened his mouth to ask him to get to the point… but Moriarty got there first.

“So forgive me if I’m not trembling in my boots as I stand before you,” he snarled, “But I fail to see what you could possibly do to hurt me now. Just get on with it; I can’t say this hasn’t been interesting, but I have got things to do. Why did you call me here?”

“…What? You-“

“I think that’s quite enough, don’t you?”

If Sherlock hadn’t seen his lips move, he wouldn’t have believed the words had come out of John’s mouth. His voice was quietly furious, and so cold Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine.

Moriarty stared, then shook his head dismissively and turned back to Sherlock.

“I realise you’re a bit ruffled, Sonic, but I’ve got a rather busy day so if you wouldn’t mind letting the big boys get on with their work…”

“I hate to tell you this, but you may have to cancel those appointments.”

Moriarty’s mouth dropped open in real surprise this time and he made to turn round, but before he could move Detective Inspector Lestrade had him in an arm lock and had thrown his gun into the water.

“The phrase ‘played at your own game’ springs to mind,” John remarked coldly, watching with disdain as a string of half-formed protests sprung from the struggling criminal.

“Mind if I do the honours?” called Lestrade from across the water. He was slightly breathless and his voice shook a little, but his hands were impressively steady as he brought out a pair of handcuffs.

“Be my guest.” John gave a predatory smile, and Sherlock looked on in pure disbelief.  Hope beat against his ribs and threatened to break out of his chest, tempered only by the feeling that this was not _his_ John. He watched as the stranger before him rubbed his hands together and looked into Moriarty’s purpling face, not a shred of emotion betrayed by any part of his body.

“I’m not a patient man, you see. Turns out three years of not knowing is just about my limit.” The rising anger was becoming evident in his voice, and Sherlock wanted to run away and hide, because as innocent as this man might seem he was yet to experience anything more terrifying than John Watson in a rage.

“And I’m not the only one. Three years of never knowing who to trust, wondering if you’ve been played the fool, that’s enough to get anyone’s back up. So d’you know what we did?” John turned around, and picked something off the wall.

He strode towards Moriarty, who had now been forced onto his knees by Lestrade, and crouched down in front of him. “We made a little plan of our own.” Moriarty’s eyes widened in fear, and Sherlock felt a jolt of shock run down his figure as he recognised the object in John’s hand.

“Smile,” the doctor hissed, rage and triumph shaking his voice as he held the tiny camera between his finger and thumb. “You’re on telly.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I imagine Sherlock having at least two chains of thought going at any one time.)
> 
> Work title from the Arctic Monkeys album of the same name, chapter title from [their song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVRvUIV6G-E) of the same name.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos or a comment would be great if you'd like to read more! Now have a lovely day. Or a crap day, if you really want, but I'd strongly recommend a lovely one. You've certainly made mine.
> 
> -Edit-
> 
> Wow, OK, so apparently people like it and this is a lot of fun, so I'll try and have the next chapter up by Sunday!  
> [My blog is here](http://www.doesmysassynessoffendyou.tumblr.com), any important writing updates will be posted as I go (blog has changed since first link!).


	2. Cornerstone

In that moment, Sherlock witnessed everything that made Moriarty the epitome of ruthless genius laid out to dry.

In a disturbingly familiar chain of events, he saw it all- the click as the missing piece fell into place, the narrowing of the eyes and the slight gape. Then came the analysing of every single subsequent possibility; he saw them cross his face, one by one at magnificent speed, as they clouded his forehead,  worried his lip, lifted his eyebrows, tightened his jaw and- there. There it was.

 Finally came the realisation that this was game over. Outmanoeuvred by the ‘ordinary’ people.

All of this had taken place within a few seconds, and then a blank, impenetrable wall was slammed up in front of his thoughts with a mastery that Sherlock couldn’t help but admire. It was a far cry from his usual block of pantomime extreme, but even further from what Sherlock knew he himself could realistically manage. “ _You will_ never _be me”._

He saw the future for Moriarty. The villain had run for too long, and in a painful cliché of arrogance and underestimation he had reached a dead end. Such a mundane finish for such an extraordinary man.  
 He saw the dark brilliance locked away in a blank cell, the exceptional gift squandered in arranging deals with petty thieves and prison wardens. Before, to think of a prison holding him would have been laughable, but Sherlock hadn’t been idle these past few years and, although he hated to admit it, Mycroft’s goons could be useful.

They would never take their eyes off him now. As much as Moriarty clearly excelled in power play, his brother was and always would be the top of his game. Mycroft’s extensive connections combined with the intelligence Sherlock had painstakingly gathered across the world would create a grip that not even Moriarty could break.

He saw this and knew that it was the only solution, the only thing the consulting criminal deserved. But no matter how much he despised himself for it, there was still a voice in his head whispering “ _Such a terrible waste…”_

Another officer came from behind Lestrade, someone Sherlock vaguely recognised as D.I. Dimmock _(Ah, yes, D.I. Dim. John had told him off the first time, although his eyes had crinkled as he stressed the importance of keeping people in your favour.  The long-suffering sighs and grimaces of apology were something he’d found himself looking for over his shoulder, every time his moral compass wobbled in the past three years.)_. Together, they pulled the criminal up; he craned his neck round, twisting his mouth into a sickly smile as he leaned too close into Lestrade.

“New uniform?”

Yes, it was. That was odd, Lestrade kept pairs of socks for over four years; he had never bothered to replace his uniform in the ten years that Sherlock had known him, so why-

The shot rang out across the pool, so much sharper and harsher than Moriarty’s yell of a minute ago; it was like a bomb had gone off and Sherlock surged forwards instinctively, seeing John do the same in his periphery _(but God he looked pale)_ , and there was blood, Lestrade was covered in blood, not now oh please not now-

With a rasping sigh Moriarty slid to the floor out of Lestrade and Dimmock’s numb hands, blood blossoming from the back of his head and forming a pool around it in a cruel imitation of the video from minutes before.

Stupid, so stupid to think that he only had one gun, and of course, of course, who would live a life like that after having the world at the pull of a thread?

Both of the inspectors were struck dumb, Lestrade’s face chalk white against the spattering of blood on his neck, shirt and now shoes-

He didn’t realise he was shaking until his knees buckled under him, and he hurried to push himself up, willing his legs to move, just _move-_

And then there was an arm under his shoulder, pushing him up and Sherlock knew he should refuse the help but that _smell_ , bath robes and newspaper ink and hair product and _cologne_ , dear God the man was in his late thirties and he was still wearing cologne designed for muscly youths with gelled-back hair and testosterone problems-

“Well.” John’s voice cracked, and he took a deep breath as he hoisted Sherlock up into standing, tightening his grip around his waist. “That’s one way to take care of it.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock croaked, and he was going to ignore how rough that sounded, “Are you alright?”

Everyone’s eyes were on him, and after three years of blending into the shadows it was almost too much, like they were drilling a hole in his head.

“I…” Lestrade ran his hands through his hair before he seemed to remember where they’d been; he grimaced and took a shuddering breath, all the time staring at Sherlock _(wrinkles, shadows under eyes, tic in left cheek [had he been sacked? Surely not, he wouldn’t have missed something like that], the current case isn’t treating him well, then, honestly why become a police officer if you can’t handle stress)_ like he couldn’t bear to look away.

But then he did, and Sherlock felt rather like he’d become invisible again as he turned his gaze to John.

“Good thing I turned the camera off, we’d have got in trouble showing that on prime time. I’ve got officers outside that’ll take care of the body; we need to get Sh- get him out of here.”

What, was his name a curse, now?

John withdrew his arm and Sherlock missed the warmth, but he was more concerned with how no-one would meet his eyes. As John gestured to follow him out the back door, Dimmock became very busy with his radio, and Lestrade’s eyes kept flickering over his face as he walked to his side, but they never rested there for more than a second. What was the point, really, of coming out of hiding if everyone was just going to pretend that he wasn’t there?

Shoulders back and head held high, determined to retain some pretence of dignity, he followed John at a brisk walk outside into the rough green that backed the pool. He felt a hat being shoved on his head, and turned to look at Lestrade incredulously.

“If you really think-“

“God knows I recognise the irony, Sherlock,” _(finally, there it was, and the Inspector seemed to take a particular relish in using his name once it was out in the open, he even smiled a little)_ “But the news crews will be here soon enough. We gave the major corporations a link to a live feed, not the location, but they’ll figure it out eventually and then they’ll be here in their masses. The whole “low profile” thing was shot in the mouth from the start, really,” _(that, right there, that was a spectacular choice of phrase)_ “but the less the public get to know your face the better.”

And then he was being lead down a side alley as officers streamed up the other way- they all slowed slightly as they passed, the less professional gawping openly, and Sherlock found himself tugging the hat down despite himself.

They came out onto a quiet road about two streets away from the pool, with ten police cars stretching to the left and right.

“Subtle.” he muttered, before he was pushed into the back of a car, Lestrade in front and John taking the seat next to him. The door was slammed and the car pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the retreating bustle as the last few officers hurried towards the corpse that had once held the most dangerous man on Earth.

Maybe if he asked nicely, they’d let him keep his brain in a jar? There would be some bullet damage, of course, but-

“Sherlock, are you OK?”

The words were forced, brittle as they came from the man next to him, still so wrong, and of course he was OK, he was always OK, he’d seen brains plastered on walls and insides on the outsides and-

“Lestrade, pull over.”

The car came to a stop with a juddering halt and Sherlock was out the door in a moment, dry heaving onto the grass as he fell to his knees. Again. Really, he was making a habit of this.

Stupid to feel nausea, he hadn’t eaten in days; he’d made a point to only stop for food twice a week, the less people saw him the better. He’d never been recognised, the hair dye and a simple change of posture had been enough for that, but still. Couldn’t be too careful.

He felt the bile in the back of his throat, and maybe the lack of digested food was a plus but the clenching _hurt_ , and the sweat on his brow and the pounding of blood in his ears was a very real reminder that he was human again. No longer a creature of the shadows, moving unseen through busy streets and across rooftops, above hunger and pain, above it all until he saw a relevant headline. Or a short man with a limp. Or graffiti in red, or a child crying, or one of the stupid, _stupid_ “Sherlock Holmes is a Fraud” signs, tattered and rain-beaten and torn but still displaying their message with taunting certainty.

Or until he went too high.

He got back into the car when his head stopped spinning, motioning for Lestrade to continue driving.

“You’re in shock, Sherlock.”

“If you’re going to offer me a blanket-“

“He’s right, and even if he weren’t we need to get you medical attention anyway.” Of course, five minutes in and John was already playing mother. He ignored the warmth that curled in his chest. “You’re looking far from well, God knows where you’ve been-“ at that the doctor hunched over slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing out heavily. “I don’t care what you say; I’ve seen you walk away from criminals with glass sticking out of your forehead claiming to be fine. Though for all I know, maybe you were, maybe it was fucking _sugar glass_ and the blood was ketchup-“ He stopped himself again, balling his fists and looking determinedly at his lap. Sherlock wished he’d turn his head, so he could read into the lines, the stubble, the crease between his eyes. He’d always had one of the most expressive faces he knew.

He waited a little as the silence stretched, all too aware how inept he was at social cues. Three years with almost no human contact had left what few social skills he possessed rusty. When it became clear no-one was going to speak, he leant in towards John.

“Won’t you do?” He murmured, raising an eyebrow and sticking his lower lip out slightly. John just turned to stare out the window, Lestrade sighing quietly in front as he pulled back into the road.

He shrugged it off, leaning back against the head rest and closing his eyes. He mapped their route in his mind, determining their destination. Left, right, left, left, right-

Something was missing. Shouldn’t someone be talking? That’s what people did, wasn’t it, on car journeys? He opened his eyes, reading the tension in Lestrade’s shoulders. John still hadn’t turned round. It was strangely reminiscent of their first taxi ride together; he had felt unsure, then, almost as much as he did now. He usually worked with the assumption that whomever he was talking to would leave after a couple of minutes; they’d be just another face in the street, mortally offended or not. How did one act, then, around people they were hoping to maintain a civil acquaintanceship with?

This was rather a unique situation, surely. There were no rule books here. Before he would have babbled ceaselessly as they travelled, bouncing ideas off John, not needing any contribution other than the knowledge that someone was listening. But now…

Was he overstepping his place, to speak? John had questions, surely, but none were forthcoming and he had the feeling that prompting wouldn’t be taken well. John had yet to look him in the eyes, so he would follow his lead. It had been foolish to think of slipping into the banter they once had.

But if John was angry with him, this was a very ineffectual way to deal with it, really. Talking, yelling, punching, that he would understand; he supposed, a part of him had almost expected. John was a man of action. This, however, this silence was unbearable. It left the impression of someone stretched taught, fragile enough to break, and it was so at odds with the man he knew he wondered if he’d come home at all.

Shouldn’t they be celebrating? After all, they had just organised the demise of probably the most brilliant criminal ever to waltz the back alleys. A death may not have been the intended solution, but it had worked, certainly. Shouldn’t there be laughter, drinks, relief?

But then, he felt anything but jubilant. Exhausted beyond the numbness, was how he could best describe it. Maybe he _was_ in shock. It would explain his still shaking hands. Relief would come, but for now, he felt drained to the core.

He settled into his seat, leaning on the head rest again. Left, right, right, roundabout- _it had been so long since he slept_ \- left, left, right, left…

***

“Hey, sunshine. Out of the car.”

Yes, Lestrade, of course, Lestrade too- what was his standing on this? He didn’t look angry, just faintly exasperated, sad, and tired, very tired- wait.

“Why are we at the Yard?”

“Where did you think we were going?”

“Home, I imagined that would be obvious, I’ve had rather a trying day-“

The slam of the car door stopped him mid-flow, and Lestrade paused in his incredulous stare to watch John storm past them into the building.

He sighed, rubbing the space between his eyebrows as he turned back to Sherlock.

“I don’t envy you that one, mate.”

But what was he being held responsible for, exactly? Although he’d rather they had found out differently, or ideally not at all, surely it was clear after the video that it had been in good cause. The alternative was unthinkable.

“He seems… different.”

And here with the incredulity again.

“He’s been ‘different’! Are you-“ the D.I. gave a small, dry chuckle, then turned towards the entrance, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stupid as he is clever”.

“You really have no idea, do you?”

No, he didn’t, if Lestrade would insist on stressing his ignorance. That was rather the point.

He followed him into the building, heading for the flight of stairs that led to Lestrade’s office- but he was steered away, down instead of up, and he found himself outside the onsite cells.

“What-“

“Sorry, Sherlock, but technically you’re still wanted for murder, kidnapping, fraud, and a shitload besides. Should only take a couple of hours to get it sorted, with your people up high, but still. Procedure, and all. Not as if you’ve anywhere else to go, really. You understand, right?”

He nodded. But that wasn’t quite right-

“Of course I’ve got somewhere to go. Home. Baker Street. You haven’t forgotten where I live these past few years, have you?”

“Hmm. Well.” Lestrade shuffled his feet, staring at the floor. What was everyone tiptoeing around? What had changed?

“So, this homicide case…”

“Nah-ah, not yet you don’t.” Lestrade grinned, looking up again. “Hell of a way to announce your presence, by the way. Nearly gave me and Donovan a heart attack.

Donovan. He wrinkled his nose. She was still here, then. How these people managed to hang on to their jobs with their level of ineptitude- actually, speaking of…

“You kept your job, then?”

“No.” Lestrade frowned a little. “Surprised you missed that.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t been keeping close tabs. I assumed you retained your position, in the absence of any information otherwise. Anyway,” he sniffed, ruffled, “I was too busy noticing the most recent development in your marriage. Or lack of marriage, I should say.”

“Yeah, welcome back, Sherlock,” he sighed, wiggling the hand clear of ring and tan line _(four months with the holiday in Spain would have been enough to get rid of it)_ in the air. “Five months and much happier for it, thank you, so don’t go on.”

He turned to unlock the door. “Look, what we saw back there- I know you probably don’t want to talk about it. But I’ve got to say, I’m… touched. I mean, I was pretty pissed at you for leaving us hanging after you jumped, but…” He rubbed at the nape of his neck, turning to face Sherlock again. “Look, what I’m trying to say is… you know, I’d do the same for you. And I… Oh I can’t do this-“

He pulled Sherlock into a bone-shattering hug. He couldn’t feel his upper arms. Ow. Were hugs meant to be this painful? Ow, this was quite possibly the most uncomfortable he’d ever been-

“I missed you, you daft prick.” Lestrade took a step back, straightening his tie. “Right. Feelings talk strictly over. Someone’ll come in asking if you want any visitors in a few minutes. I’ve got John in my office upstairs; I’ll be there with him until you get out.” He patted Sherlock on the back, gesturing him into the cell.

“Glad you’re back. Seriously.”

The door closed, and he was alone again.

***

He had been staring at a blank wall for ten minutes when the door to his cell opened.

“Brother?”

Ah, of course. It had only been a matter of time, although he had been hoping to push it a little longer…

“If my memory serves me correctly.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched in a poor imitation as a smile as he came in, Lestrade following with two chairs, one of which he proceeded to sit on.

“Thank you, but we’re quite alright by ourselves, inspector.”

Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow, in a way that clearly said “Try me.” Sherlock tried not to smirk as Mycroft turned back towards him, the picture of composure to anyone who didn’t know him intimately as he settled into the second chair, the barely discernible huff disturbing the air in front of him.

There was a long, awkward silence.  _Five and a half pounds, fell off the cake wagon it seems, bald patch larger by 30%, fired three spies from his office today, fry-up breakfast [is he even trying?], waiting on a call from Julia (Jolene? Jessica? Jemima? He was reasonably sure it was a J month for Mycroft’s PA-)_

“You could have called me.”          

The words were icy as they cracked across the cell, but he could see past the chill in his gaze to the faint despair underneath.

“Of course I couldn’t. I was playing dead, Mycroft, dead men don’t make phone calls.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, folding his hands in front of him as he glared at Sherlock. “I have higher security than almost anyone else on this planet, you know that, there is no way that you would have been tracked.”

“And you don’t think that any alarm bells would have rung when they noticed the lack of frantic searching going on behind government lines?”

“I don’t search for dead men, Sherlock-“

“Oh, don’t be deliberately obtuse, it’s hardly becoming. I’ve been dodging your minions since day one, _brother_ , and however subtle you think they are, those who are looking notice. If I’d notified you of my continued existence you would have stopped wasting a fifth of your resources in an attempt to locate me. Moriarty’s contacts might not be as brilliant as he is, but they can put two and two together.”

“Was, I hear.”

“Sorry?”

“As brilliant as he was. I hear our favourite master criminal came to a timely demise this afternoon.”

“…Yes. Correct. Was, then. The point still stands.”

“So, is he definitely dead, then?” Lestrade interjected, giving Sherlock a quizzical glance. “I mean, he has done this before. Exactly this, in fact, so-“

“And that’s exactly how we know this is real,” retorted Sherlock and Mycroft, almost simultaneously. How horrifying. Mycroft gestured for Sherlock to continue _(I don’t feel the need to prove myself to you, brother, get that smirk off your face)_.

“He wouldn’t play the same trick twice,” he explained. “It would be everything he despises; normality, predictability, no creativity or innovation. No, this is real; anyway, he didn’t have time to set up like before, and as there were officers on the scene at every moment from before to well after his suicide, and I’m assuming you have the competence to set up a guard for the first few days, this is almost a certainty.”

Now if only he could convince himself of that.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Lestrade puffed. “One less thing to worry about.”

“Not necessarily,” Mycroft purred with expertly concealed disdain _(still trying to fool me after all these years, give it up, brother)_. “Although the spider may be gone, to borrow your metaphor, Sherlock, the web remains. Moriarty had contacts all over the world, many of whom I have no doubt were instructed in some task were a situation such as this to occur. I assume you weren’t so foolish as to leave these unchecked before your return? I would be very interested to learn what information you have gathered in your absence, it would be extremely useful to know how you neutralised so many-“

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mycroft coughed delicately, turning round.

“I will say it again; you are welcome to leave, Inspector. We are quite capable of handling ourselves, and I believe that much of the information we are about to discuss is well above your clearance-“

“Your brother has been dead for three years, and five minutes after you see him again you try and start a business meeting?”

“It’s quite alright, Lestrade. He got off his voluminous backside to come here himself, that’s like sending flowers for him-“

“Oh yes, because showing affection got you _so_ far-“

From the way the inspector bristled, Sherlock gathered that had crossed some line that Holmes’s weren’t privy to.

“Out.”

“For the third time, your presence is not required-“

“No. You. Out.”

“These matters are of the utmost governmental importance-“

“I don’t care, you wanker!” Lestrade exploded. “This man has been in hiding for the past three years, he just witnessed someone shoot themselves through the head, he hasn’t eaten for days, or slept, either, by the look of it. I don’t care if you’re some kind of immortal android, the rest of us are human! This is my cell, with my prisoner. I don’t fucking care who controls the CCTV cameras or the pay checks, I care that you stop harassing my friend and get off the premises!”

Sherlock’s ears were ringing as Lestrade stopped his tirade. The inspector was slightly breathless and red in the face, but looked much less tense for that outburst. His respect grew for this man with every day that he knew him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow coolly and straightened his tie, then proceeded to get out of his chair and pick up his umbrella from where it leant against the wall. He made his way towards the door, pausing as he passed Lestrade.

“As you wish, _inspector_.” The infection on the last word was deliberately doubtful, yet Lestrade met his gaze with a coolness that Sherlock didn’t know he contained.

He paused again at the door, looking over his shoulder.

“I’ll be in touch, Sherlock.”

“I might explode from the anticipation.”

He would’ve bet good money that there was an eye roll before the door closed.

 

Lestrade sighed, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have- that was your brother, your call.”

“No.” He leant forward, steepling his fingers and allowing himself a smile. “Thank you.” Lestrade still looked unsure, so he expanded- “You were right. I am tired, and there are things I’d rather talk about, if I am to be forced through reunions.”

Lestrade gave a small grin in return.

“Alright, then. I don’t suppose there’s anyone you would actually like to see?”

Ah. Should he? _You really should, that much is owed, come on you can do this it’s only fair, she’s done so much I hope she’s OK-_

“Could I see Molly, please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, made it! I'm shocked by quite how much I manage to write about this, actually. Don't worry, not everything will be from Sherlock's point of view, and chapters that aren't should move a bit faster.  
> Chapter 3 might be a bit longer coming, I've got a very busy couple of weeks ahead, but I'll aim for the Sunday after next.
> 
> Chapter title from the [Arctic Monkeys song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIQz6zZi7R0) of the same name (I just love them so much).
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Have a lovely day, now.
> 
> -Edit-
> 
> Sorry, guys, I was a little optimistic exam wise. Aim is now Wednesday, but I'm getting there! I'd rather wait a little than upload something half-arsed. Hopefully see you then :)


	3. All My Own Stunts

 

She looked… small.

Her face showed little more colour than her lab coat _(although ran down three flights of stairs, pulled threads and messy hair, left in a hurry)_ , and her chocolate brown eyes were stretched wide in a kind of dumb disbelief- it made her face look rather pinched, giving the impression of a startled rodent _(you always say the most horrible things [stop it])_.

When he had asked, Lestrade’s brow had crinkled as he struggled for recollection.

“Molly…”

“Miss Hooper. She was at our Christmas party a few years ago, helped with the autopsy-“

“Ah, the poor girl you swept off her feet to drop with a bump?”

He had bristled at the insinuation. He had never implied-

Well. Maybe once.

A couple of times. But for the greater good.

“The one who you ogled while discussing an attempt to salvage the tattered remains of your marriage.”

“All right, all right, I remember. Do you have her number?”

Ha. “She works at St. Barts, call them up, these are her working hours.”

“A mortician? Really? That’s who you want to see?”

“Would I ask you to fetch someone I didn’t want to talk to?”

“No, I meant-“ Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “Right. Whatever, I‘ll see what I can do.”

Had they been at all thorough in the investigation of his death? Had there _been_ an investigation, if Lestrade didn’t even know who she was?  
  But now, as Molly almost crept into the room, it didn’t seem that surprising. She wasn’t easy to notice.

Although it was rather hard to overlook when she threw herself at him and began sobbing on his shoulder.

“Molly, really-“

She showed no sign of stopping, so he held his position on the floor; stiff and awkward, occasionally patting her back, hoping that it was the right thing to do. This was generally where John would have stepped in with a handkerchief and carefully honed bedside manner.

Eventually _(years and years and years)_ the tears slowed, and with a few great, hiccupping breaths, she pulled back to look at him.

“You lied.” she sniffed, gazing at him with wide, reproachful eyes as she blew her nose on a used tissue. "You said you’d be gone ‘a while’.”

“Is three years not sufficient?”

She choked out an incredulous laugh.

“Three _months_ is a while. Three years is… ridiculous! I’ve been checking in with John every week since you went, just in case, every time sure that he’d just forgotten to call me because… because you couldn’t _still be gone_ -”

“’A while’ is an indefinite amount of time, it hardly qualifies as a lie. Don’t be melodramatic.”

“A lie of omission, at least. When I agreed to help you, I thought I’d be keeping it to myself for a few weeks, maybe, I never thought, I didn’t-“

“Then you should’ve thought, shouldn’t you?

She recoiled from him, stricken. So easily hurt, he had forgotten…

“Look. What you did for me…” He looked up a little through his lashes, even as something unfamiliar hardened in her eyes. “It was incredibly brave. I’ll never forget that, Molly” _(surprising how easily the fake smile came back)_ “, you were invaluable to me, and-

 _Shit,_ **ow** -

“Did you just-“

Jesus, his _face_ -

“Slap you? Yes. Really fucking hard? I hope so.”

She was flushed in defiance, glaring as she stood up and crossed her arms.

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock. I can tell when I’m being used-“ _(debatable)_  “-and if you try that again, I swear to God I’ll floor you.”

She looked pale in her confidence and her voice shook slightly, but this was confidence none the less. He was forced to accept that this was a different Molly, too. So much for familiarity.

“I was thanking you-“

“No, you were flirting with me to try and distract me from how much of a …dick you were just before. So that you know that you can use me next time, Sherlock, I know what to look for.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think-“

“I went to counselling. Well, I mean, we all did- after- you know- anyway, for manipulative relationships. They were worried about us, being taken in by you and stuff, which is all… bollocks, of course, only- I mean for me, John punched the guy and stormed out of his first session- it kind of wasn’t.”

He’d forgotten how exhausting it could be to talk to her.

“So, what, you think I’m a fraud?”

“No, no! Of course not, nothing like that. But you were a bit of a… bastard. To me. Sometimes. Because, you knew, I- and, I mean, you used that, to- anyway, I took up karate to help relieve the stress, because, you know- only you wouldn’t, I’m surprised you even remember my name- I’ve had to watch the few people who ever acknowledged me either waste away or lose contact, so I’m serious, if you try and flirt with me to get out of or into something- I mean, not like that- I will… hurt you. Hard.”

Alright. Well. That was unexpected, but maybe about time.

“…Understood. Forgive me. But, truly, I am grateful.”

She regarded him slightly suspiciously, pursing her lips and fiddling with her ear as she often did when nervous.

“Then, if you mean it really, do me a favour? Never talk to me about it again.”

“…Why?”

“That was the most… horrible thing I’ve ever had to do. Well, I mean, either that or not being able to tell anyone about it afterwards, the number of times I nearly cracked around John, you should’ve seen- anyway. As much as possible, I’d love to… forget that happened. I feel awful- I mean, I don’t regret doing it, of course, but about the cover up- and I’d rather not be reminded of it. Please.”

Was a single reunion going to go as anticipated? Other than Mycroft’s, of course, but he’d seen soap operas _(once, it was once, any subsequent episodes of Waterloo Road had been purely coincidental, no matter what John said)_ less predictable than his brother.

“As you wish. In that case, I believe most topics of conversation have been exhausted, unless…?”

“Wha- well, no, there’s nothing else I especially wanted to say to you, but-“

“Then I bid you a safe journey back to work. I expect I’ll see you soon enough, once I start taking cases again. Until then, I’m glad we could part on amicable terms.”

“You’re going to-“

“You’re not the only person on my agenda, you know, I have been dead for three years.”

“But-“

“Goodbye, Molly.”

She sighed, pulling her errant hairs back into a tighter ponytail. She gave a brief nod, a weak smile and hurried from the room, shoulders straight as she closed the door behind her.

Interesting.

He heard a startled, stammering “Hello-“ from outside, and stood up as John strode into the room. He realised belatedly that the cane was gone, and felt a small surge of satisfaction as he smiled- a real one, this time. It had been too long.

“This had better be good.”

What?

“Pretty bloody spectacular, actually.”

His back was against the opposite wall to Sherlock, hands clenched into fists at the end of rigid arms, too rigid, all of him -

“If you are referring to my disappearance, then I’d imagined it would have become clear after today’s events.” Was everyone going to rub in how weak he’d been? He was beginning to see where Molly was coming from-

“No, not that. I can see… that.” He shifted, slightly uncomfortable under what seemed to be an awful lot of anger- misdirected, surely. His face showed warring emotions, but other than that, he was finding John much harder to read than… Before… Oh God no, he wasn’t going to use that cliché, there had to be something better-

“I’m talking about how you didn’t resurface for three years. What, did you just get sick of us and see this as a handy excuse to take a break? We thought you were _dead_ -“

“Well, yes, that was rather the point-“

“But why? Why did it take three years? You could’ve come back after a month, before we had your _funeral_. These last three years, as far as I can tell, have been one massive display of megalomania and a chance for you to see the world, unhindered by us ordinary humans, while I’ve been sitting at Baker Street-“

“I had to.” This was inexcusable, if John thought- “The contract, of the assassins. It was three years; he employed them a few months in advance, of course, and their contracts ran out on Friday. Hunting them down, killing them would be cheating,” he implored, because John had to understand, “Moriarty would just have replaced them, maybe even killed you immediately because I’d skipped my turn. He thought I was dead, too. If I’d announced my continued existence by not only coming back but killing the assassins, it would have taken his victory away from him, and you should have seen how-“ _(that smile, like it would split his face in two, that laugh, following him into every dream)_ “ _happy_ he was, to have won. I couldn’t predict what he’d do, John,” he was pleading, now, there was no escaping that, “I couldn’t take that risk for the sake of impatience.”

He realised abruptly how much closer he’d got, almost breathing the same air, and he could pick out out every wrinkle again-

He took a couple of startled, slightly sheepish steps back, as John let out a long breath. He was looking down, his hands clasped behind his back now as the seconds ticked by, until all Sherlock could hear was the clock on the grey wall, what had ever been the purpose of a ticking clock, anyway?

John looked up, but not at him, his eyes focused somewhere behind Sherlock’s shoulder as he gave a tight lipped smile.

“So what am I supposed to do with that now, huh?”

That was… rather vague, even for him.

“I’ve been stuck here, stewing for three years with no-one to answer for the shit that’s happened, and now here you are, dropping back in, like, why _wouldn’t_ everything be normal-“ he took a deep, shuddering breath, looking down at his hands, what was he meant to do here, what was even _happening_ -

“I’m so, so angry, Sherlock, and you just- why couldn’t you just have told me? Before you sent me on a wild goose chase to Mrs Hudson, we were alone, you could’ve-“

“I couldn’t risk it, John.”

“What, you still couldn’t trust me? After I’d put my life on the line for you, so many times, after all- and God knows I’m beginning to sound like a sappy dumpee, here- but after all we’d been through, you couldn’t trust me to keep one secret, that would have saved me three years of hell?”

Oh, honestly, it couldn’t have been that bad. John wasn’t like him, or apparently Molly, he had friends, and the ability to make new ones.

“How about we discuss this at home?” He still hadn’t gotten to reacquaint himself with his armchair, or the sofa that was just the wrong length for lying on that somehow made it so much more appealing. “It’s been a long day, we could have tea-“ made by John, of course-

“Oh, that’s rich.” John scoffed, the words laced with derision. “Of course, let’s go _home,_ we’ll have a cuppa, I’m sure that will make everything better. And what makes you think, exactly, that you’re still living at Baker Street?”

What?

“It’s my flat.” Was John being slow? A late onset of shock, perhaps, or maybe people in general were just less clever than he remembered.

“You’re name’s not on the deed.” John growled quietly. “It hasn’t been on the deed for _three years_.”

He wasn’t suggesting-

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _I’m_ being ridiculous?”

“Look, John, I realise you’re upset-“

“ _DON’T_ FUCKING TALK TO ME LIKE YOU _UNDERSTAND_ , LIKE YOU HAVE _ANY IDEA_ -“

The doctor turned his back, breathing heavily, folding his hands behind him. Sherlock could hear his pulse hammering in his ears.

“You can stay with Mycroft until you sort something else out,” he snapped roughly. Sherlock watched, feeling slightly as though the ground had been taken from under him, as the one person he’d counted on to be there for the aftermath of this mess stormed out of his cell.

He didn’t flinch as the door slammed.

***

Sherlock took great care to resent every minute of the car journey. Mycroft had met him with a cold smirk and a drawled “That went well, didn’t it?” once he’d been ushered from the building by ‘Jasmine’, some twenty minutes after his meeting with John _(Good to know someone was eager to have him, an hour was almost impressive)_. He hadn’t deigned to reply, pointedly looking away as he took the seat in the far right of the black Jaguar.

His brother had been mercifully silent since, so he had spent the time looking out of the tinted windows as the tall glass structures of the city fell away to the suburbs, which in turn fell away to the odd tree and cows of the countryside.

Mycroft intended to stow him away in one of the numerous Holmes manors, then, while he stayed in his city penthouse doing something probably vital to world peace and without a doubt mind-numbingly tedious. Most likely White Birch Hall; he had never been, but was vaguely aware that it was Mycroft’s by inheritance, and as such had made a note of its whereabouts in order to steer as clear from it as was humanly possible.

It was impressive, in a wearily predictable way; large sweeping forests and fields surrounded by a high brick wall, with a driveway a quarter of a mile long, lined with a myriad of quaint flowers and shrubs that spoke of reserved luxury.

“About forty acres,” Mycroft remarked, eyeing the approaching mansion. It was huge, of course, a pleasant sandy colour with ivy twining up the walls it had been allowed to explore; it would be out of the question for Mycroft to leave in untended. “I use it monthly, in general, to host important ambassadors, political types, potential terrorists, you know the sort. The ground floor has Wi-Fi-“ He ignored Sherlock’s snort of disgust, but really, this was the 21st century, a building without complete Wi-Fi? “-and there is a housekeeper that will be able to organise anything you need. I ask you not to aggravate the staff- there is a team of some twenty gardeners, two stable boys and three cleaners. They live on site with their families, and this is their home more than either of ours, Sherlock, so you will let them be. I have warned them that you are coming-“ _warned,_ really, was that necessary? “- so there will be a room made up for you. I will be joining you on Wednesday, unless something comes up; I’m sure you’ll be able to amuse yourself until then.”

Sherlock didn’t give any indication that he’d heard, continuing to stare out the window. The sun was almost set, his watch reading 8.12 pm as the front of White Birch was bathed in a red-gold glow. He saw a woman he assumed to be the housekeeper approaching from the grandiose wooden doors that marked the entrance, but she was too far away for him to read.

He took his iPhone out of his trouser pocket, typing nonsense with the volume turned up to irritate Mycroft. He should probably start entering numbers, now that he was back.

“Put that thing away, Sherlock,” came the terse reprimand from his brother as the car purred to a seamless halt. He took no small degree of satisfaction in seeing how his fingers had tightened around his umbrella handle _(point to Sherlock)_ , as the chauffeur opened the door and began taking cases out of the boot _(I don’t_ have _anything)_.

A breathless “Mr Holmes,” carried across the drive as the… housekeeper _(late forties two children and an ex-husband Yorkshire terrier type 2 diabetes coffee addiction boring)_ tottered towards them, wearing too much lipstick and a smile that had seen better days.

“Andrea,” and a charming smile, of course first name terms how _lovely_ , “Such a pleasure to stop by.”

“Oh, you will stay, won’t you, sir? I’ve got the room ready, and Lord knows enough food for an army, I do know how you love my cream cakes-“

“Thank you, Andrea, but I’m just here to drop off Sherlock. You remember Sherlock?”

“Oh yes, how could I forget the little dear, _my_ you’ve grown tall, you know you were six when I last saw you and still with that lovely curly mop-“

For a horrifying moment, he actually thought she was going to chub his cheeks. He backed out at the last second, making no attempt to disguise his recoil from the hug _(the_ hug _dog food and too flowery perfume that made his nose itch and sugar and cloying sweat)_ she attempted to give. He took a step back, plastering on an empty smile under her disapproving but hideously _indulgent_ gaze, as Mycroft turned to hail the gardener in a poor attempt to hide how his mouth had kicked up to one side.

He gave a curt nod.

“Miss… June?”

“That’s Mrs to you now, you little tyke, as if you didn’t know. I may not have seen you for thirty-odd years but I’ve heardabout you. I’ve been here since I was a maid, you know, back when this place had maids, and your brother here doesn’t half moan, whinges about you all the time, he does-“

She gave Mycroft a playful poke that he jumped from, as Sherlock turned with a raised eyebrow to find him giving Mrs June a quelling glance.

“If it’s all the same to you, Andrea, we’ll take Sherlock and his luggage inside now? It’s getting late, and I really can’t stay.”

“Yes, yes, of course dear. Here, Sherlock, let me take your bags-“

“That’s quite alright, Mrs June, I’m capable.” God knows what was in them, but his brother was talking to… Frederick _(one daughter and a labradoodle)_ now, so he grudgingly followed Andrea into the mansion with a suitcase and duffel bag in tow.

He paid little mind to the curving staircases and marble floors as he was taken further into the house, stopping once in a hallway to admire a spectacularly unflattering portrait of Mycroft with their childhood dog. They eventually arrived in a room with deep blue walls, curtains, bed sheets and hangings.  
There was a door in one corner, probably leading to an ensuite. A large double bed took up most of the space, otherwise occupied by a bedside table and a powder blue loveseat at the bay window, which offered a wide view of what was probably one of twenty rose gardens. His brother did seem to have some kind of hideous fascination with the flowers.

“This will be your room, dear, I hope it’s satisfactory?”

She looked so anxious as she fiddled with the cross round her neck _(mother’s 18 carat)_ that he didn’t have the heart to tell her how the onset of colour was making him nauseous, and that blue was incredibly unconducive to sleep. He gave her a blank smile and dumped his suitcase on the bed by way of answer.

“Oh, good, I am glad, you were an awfully picky six-year-old, you know. Dinner is in half an hour in the second dining room, I was sure you’d be hungry, and if there’s anything you need, anything at all, my rooms are on the second floor in the East wing, and any cleaning staff you see will be happy to help. Alright? Alright. Good. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely stay!”

She ended with a grin sickening in its sincerity, and ducked out of the room. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed _(too soft too squishy),_ massaging his temples. This was turning out to be more unpredictable than life on the run. He had imagined a slightly cramped flat with worn out chairs and walls stained by chemicals and dressing gowns that seemed to multiply and Mrs Hudson’s biscuits and Jeremy Kyle reruns and-

He clamped down on that train of thought as a ridiculous lump began to form in his throat, and started unpacking the suitcase. He felt his eyebrows shoot up at the contents; there were his old shirts, his trousers, suit jackets, dressing gowns, underwear and if they’d messed up his sock index _again_ -

“They were taken from your old flat, given by the good doctor.”

His head snapped round to find Mycroft leaning against the door frame, watching impassively as he unearthed the… ear-hat, dear God John had given them the ear-hat-

“You went to Baker Street?”

“Naturally. There wasn’t time to organise a proper fitting, and the jeans under that coat are giving me stomach ache.”

“You’re certain that’s not the third cream cake?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed for a second, before he straightened up to give Sherlock an appraising glance.

“I will try and get him back for you, brother-“

“You will do nothing of the sort. He’s made his choice, and it’s a sensible one. Leave him alone.”

He turned away at the last second, unable to meet his brother’s eyes as he unpacked… Billy. Well, that was a slap in the face more effective than any Molly could give.

The sigh from the door made his hair stand on end.

“As you wish. I’m sure you know what’s best for you, you have such a good track record that way.”

He was going to wipe that resigned smirk off with a kitchen knife-

“I did say not blue,” mused Mycroft, and it was with a softer tone now as he surveyed the room. “I suppose the message got a little scrambled.”

He tapped his fingers along the umbrella handle _(seriously)_ , carefully studying the nails of his other hand.

“It is good to have you back, brother. I ask that in future, you avoid ruses that involve your apparent decease.”

He exited with a twirling wave, pulling the door to behind him. Sherlock got up to close it fully, hands shaking as he attempted to fit the key in the lock.

He was too tired for this.

He pulled the curtains shut, only bothering to toe off his shoes and shrug off his coat before he sank into the bed, brushing the suitcase and unpacked clothes onto the floor. The staff could iron them in the morning.

And maybe the bed had far too much give but it was _soft_ , and he was _safe_ and so _tired_ , and he felt all the little voices in his head clamouring to be heard fade into the distance, as exhaustion and desperate relief pulled him under.

***

Sherlock woke up to his phone alarm, reminding him with a persistent beeping that it was 7am _(yes he_ knew _that it was 7am, he had been made aware, once was enough, you don’t have to keep doing that, stop please STOP)_. He rolled out of bed, cracking his head on the bedside table and hurting his back on the floor as he reached desperately for his coat pocket to stop the sound drilling through his skull.

He reluctantly took stock of his body, noting with disgust his wrinkled clothes, the cloying sensation in the back of his throat like he’d just swallowed a lump of dust, and the dull throbbing from the back of his head that would form a lovely bruise.

 It was time to change the bandages on his side again and _oh_ , that was hunger. It shuddered through his body until he felt weak all over, what was that, five days now? He shouldn’t have missed dinner.

He had a shower in the ensuite, with actual hot water for the first time in months and _towels_ , he had forgotten how heavenly a soft towel could be. Dressing in the few clothes that were salvageable without ironing, he went in search of breakfast.

The tantalising aroma of bacon led him to the second dining room, and he felt slightly light-headed as he caught sight of scrambled eggs. A young boy _(17 aspires for head chef Mycroft didn’t mention cooking staff)_ was setting out tea and sausages, and he nearly jumped a foot as he caught sight of Sherlock in the doorway.

“Erm, hello, Mr Holmes, I mean, young Mr Holmes, not that you’re, um, g- good morning, sir- “

He stammered to a halt under Sherlock’s amused gaze. New to the job, then.

“Call me Sherlock, if titles are causing you that much bother.”

“Yes, sir- er, Sherlock- would you mind if I called you sir, actually? I mean, I-“

“Call me whatever you want, as long as it’s not affected by my brother.”

“Well. Um. Technically, sir, we’re not meant to talk to you.”

“Ah. And does that extend to all of the staff?”

“Umm, I don’t think so, sir, just the cooks.”

Ah-hah, there it was. Worried about experiments, maybe? He could talk his way into any kitchen. Or perhaps that he’d reduce the head chef to tears, but really that was only the one time and _John_ could make a better crème brûlée than that monstrosity. Or maybe that he’d talk the staff into putting salt in his cream cakes instead of sugar, now _that_ was an idea…

“Um, so this is all yours, really, we don’t have anyone else staying but Miss Danford said for me to go wild, because we don’t often get the chance to cook for people who aren’t important- I mean, not that you’re not- um- so is this OK? Because I can make something else if it’s not, but I’m meant to be helping Uncle Frederick with the roses- sir?”

It would be the most loving thing to do, really, he needed to lose a few pounds and his _face_ when he bit into the bakewell tart, it could be the one salvaging point of tomorrow’s dinner-

“Sir?”

“Sorry? Yes, yes it’s fine, thank you. Go and do… whatever you have to, and your girlfriend’s cheating on you by the way, check in her jewellery box.”

“Umm…”

But he was no longer paying attention as he loaded his plate with glorious hot food, sat down in a proper chair, and _silver cutlery_ , he had the sudden urge to laugh-

“I’ll just go now, then. I’m James Curtis, by the way, sir.”

He dimly registered that the boy’s voice was trembling slightly, but paid it no heed as he tucked into his best meal in three years.

In the end, he could barely manage two rashers of bacon and a spoonful of egg. It looked as though his eating habits were going to become problematic again. Not a cause for concern, however. Unless you were John, who would physically stuff toast into his mouth mid-sentence if he was being particularly stubborn.

Although not any more, he reminded himself, not any more.

The day passed with little event. He took a stroll through the grounds, carried by some vague remembrance of a bee hive kept by one of the gardeners. He spent an hour or two in riveting conversation with ‘Geoffrey’, as it turned out, and came away with three pots of honey and a book on how different flowers affected the taste.

He terrorized the stable boys for a couple of hours by making pointedly off-hand comments about the various uses of horse meat, and listing the details of some as-yet-to-be-completed experiments involving the eyes and liver of the animals. He desisted when the youngest of the three broke into a nervous sweat, and the oldest began sizing him up with repeated glances to the shovel leant against the stable door.

He spent the rest of the day in the library reading up on Dutch mass-murderers in the 19th century, an embarrassing gap in his knowledge that had come to light recently while he was tracing a serial killer in Belgium. He left briefly to pay the kitchens a visit _(they all looked at him like he was a bomb about to go off, word travelled fast, where was James)_ , requesting they prepare him nothing more complex than a salad for dinner; he was finding it a struggle to keep his breakfast down.

He retired to his bedroom at 10 o’clock, reading “Bees and Bouquets” in an attempt to sooth the chattering staccato bursts of thought that would keep him awake for hours now that he had gotten a decent night’s sleep. He ended up lying in the now stifling bed, staring at the ceiling as his watch read 12 am… 1 am… 2.15 am…

Eventually he gave up, and pulling on some pyjamas began to calculate the best route to the roof.

Half an hour later he was five floors up, legs swinging from the edge as he looked out onto the grounds. There was only a half moon, but the night was clear, and this far into the country the stars were bright. He breathed deeply, glad for once to be free of the city as pure air chilled his lungs. He had approximately 20 minutes before he started shivering too much to ensure a safe return. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

He tucked his chin into his chest, wondering what would happen were he to jump again, this time with no plan in place. That would be an unpleasant surprise for Mrs June in the morning.

Lestrade would probably lose his job; there was no conceivable way that a man of his intellect could solve the current case, and in the minds of the public and the Met it would vindicate all doubts. Mycroft would possibly become morbidly obese. He remembered the despair in his eyes, how his voice had softened, and found a small kernel of warmth to hold against the cold.

But then he remembered how John’s voice had reverberated around the cell, anger and mistrust overbearing in a face he was used to showing indulgence or exasperation _(but the mixture of the two in a way that had become almost synonymous with his name, that was his favourite)_. That was one bridge he’d hoped he’d never burn.

He pulled up his knees, wrapping his arms around them as the cold began to bite.

Perhaps it was time he went inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was a bit late. Exams are still going so I won't make any promises update wise, but I will add an edit to the notes if it's going to be any later than the Sunday after next :)
> 
> Chapter title from the [Arctic Monkeys song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieb00smPas0) of the same name.
> 
> I now have a [blog solely for fanfiction purposes](http://www.doesmysassynessoffendyou.tumblr.com), which you may find more convenient to follow than my everyday one.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Have a lovely day, now.


	4. Crying Lightening

 

_“Unexpected item in bagging area.”_

“What does that even-“

_“Please remove unexpected item from bagging area.”_

“I scanned every- what, the _banana_? How the hell are you meant to scan a bloody _banana_ , it doesn’t have a barcode-“

_“Please wait for assistance.”_

“Oh, for pity’s sake.”

One day, one bloody day without feeling like his Pa tapping at the DVD player, that would have been nice.

As it was, John abandoned the shopping- he was going to try with that cabbage, he really was- and marched out into the freezing morning air, taking a moment to feel it chap his lips before he was pushed roughly to the side by a mother and her two children, and assaulted with the smell of exhaust fumes and cigarettes. Take-away again.

He trudged down the street, tucking his hands into his coat pockets and trying very hard not to look anyone in the eye. Thankfully, he had a face easily forgotten, and only received a couple of confused glances as he went. He didn’t want to be reminded that…

That thing that he wasn’t thinking about… because it didn’t concern him anymore…

Fuck, this was a mess.

He sighed as he rounded the corner, only to catch himself in his stride as he was confronted by the woman who’d shoved past him, one hand in her daughter’s and one in her son’s.

She had blond hair piled on top of her head, and was wearing bright red lipstick. She was extremely pretty, but in a slightly disconcerting way; there was nothing behind her eyes, she wasn’t holding onto her children’s hands tight enough (he’d had a lot of experience with stressed parents), and she looked too awake for the… four year old and six year old, he estimated, in tow.

He felt his heart sink to his knees as he caught sight of the black jaguar behind her.

“Sorry, not today.”

“John Watson-“

“Tell your boss he can shove whatever shit he wants to spin me back up his arse, I’m not interested.”

He turned and walked the other way, heart clenching as he thought of how Sherlock would have snickered at his mixed idioms. He saw the car creeping along behind him in the corner of his eye and gave a frustrated huff, ducking into the nearest café-

Which was, naturally, empty but for one Mycroft Holmes.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Sit.”

He gestured to the chair across from him, stirring a generous spoonful of sugar into his tea. John took it silently- the next step would probably be armed guards or a city-wide lockdown. Might as well get this over with.

“Would you care for a drink?”

“Cut the crap.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but declined to comment on the unusual shortness of temper… short even for him. He was gracious enough to accept when he was in a bad mood, but the person who kidnapped him (that was what this was, despite the illusion of freedom in the busy high-street and mostly glass walls) in the midst of it wasn’t going to get any pandering.

“My brother’s current living situation is unacceptable.”

“Pissing you off that much, is he?”

Sighing, his kidnapper pushed away his drink and placed his hands deliberately on the table.

“It is not myself whom I hold concern for. I am not staying in the same house as he is.”

Of course not, he probably had a dozen government bunkers all over London. Maybe Sherlock was in a secret tunnel system leading off the sewers. Maybe he had been this whole time- maybe-

“You knew.”

“…No.” And it was the pain that it took him to admit it, visible through the whitening of his knuckles and the displeased downturn of his mouth that showed it as truth.

“You always know.”

“Not with Sherlock. He has… practice, at hiding things from me.”

John smirked despite himself, imagining Sherlock hiding Mycroft’s teddy bear, his umbrella socks (that picture, Mycroft probably the only child ever to be happy with clothes for Christmas, and a bottle of whisky as Jeremy Kyle yelled in the background and the sofa felt like concrete from over-use but it didn’t matter-)

“You miss him.”

He almost jumped at Mycroft attempting to take such a personal approach.

“I _missed_ him, yes. I’ve got used to a different norm, now. I’d miss not having to clean cat’s guts out of my bathtub.”

“Ah, was he trying to make strings again?”

“Yes. The cat was already dead, we found it in the road, he was just trying to make use of it I think-“

Why was he defending him?

“I have a proposal for you, Dr Watson. A beneficial one for all parties involved. Allow Sherlock to live with you again. He can stop skulking around terrorising my staff, stay at a place he has become very fond of- which is completely against what I would usually endorse, but I suspect best in this situation- and you can get back to the life you know you prefer.”

“ _Prefer_?” he spluttered incredulously. “It was the most insane year-and-a-half of my life. I was nearly blown up, shot, and stabbed, just to name a few of the near-death experiences I was privy to. I’ve gotten hypothermia, I’ve ran for so long that I’ve collapsed, I’ve been drugged- on one occasion _by your brother_. I never had a relationship last more than two weeks, I’d come home and open the fridge not thinking “What’s for dinner” but “What sections am I going to need to quarantine tonight”. He’d call me up at 2 in the morning, once when I was at a conference in _Bristol_ , and convince me that the situation was dire enough to rush back to Baker Street only to find out the _dishwasher_ was beeping and he didn’t know how to switch it off. I don’t know what impression you got growing up with him, but living with your brother is _hell_.”

“And yet you stayed.”

…Fucking politicians. Suddenly the ground was gone from under his feet, and he felt himself deflate as Mycroft took… his keys, oh God he didn’t want to know… out of his pocket.

“Taking into account the multitude of offences you just mentioned, that would indicate you had a strong reason for not leaving him.”

Because… he felt like he had a purpose. He had something to battle against, with Sherlock’s staggering ignorance in the most simple areas and complete lack of consideration. And he’d felt like he was helping people, like he was making a difference beyond handing out Calpol and tissues for runny noses. If he couldn’t fight, and he couldn’t do surgery, then the unconventional had seemed by far his best option…

“The police force will wait two days at maximum before inviting him to consult on this latest murder case. It will be much more convenient if Sherlock is situated in London for the investigation. I would also feel more comfortable knowing that someone I could trust was taking care of him.”

“Why would you trust me?”

He smiled, slightly mournfully. A Mycroft smile, the kind that left you further from the emotional truth than you had ever been. “People who pass my test never fail it on a second try, Dr Watson.”

Brilliant. Thank you so much for clearing that up. He made an effort to think it as vindictively as possible, while steering clear of admitting that he had no bloody idea what the Holmes was talking about.

“Then why should I trust him?”

“You’re clutching at straws, doctor. Are you expecting to wake up to find him hovering over you with a knife in his hand?” Mycroft leaned forward, and something hard glittered in his eyes as he pinned John down with a challenging stare. “The man jumped off a building to save your life. Show some faith; I know you have more than most.”

John slumped back in his chair. Being realistic, he supposed he had lost the minute he saw the car.

“Are you going to give me my keys back?”

“Now that I’ve made a copy, yes.”

“Wha-“ He’d left the house with those keys.

Mycroft chucked them across the table. He watched as they slid to a grating halt in front of him, not looking away as Mycroft stood up and tapped his umbrella twice against the floor tiles. Customers started to filter in through doors at the back, and John shook his head, giving a despairing snort as people started to sit down or buy coffee. Just the right number to look natural, so the public could start shuffling in until the decoys could slip out.

“I’m having dinner with Sherlock tonight. I will notify him of the changes in arrangements, and you can expect him by tomorrow noon.”

When he looked up, Mycroft was gone. The tea remained untouched. He took a sip, grimacing at the sweetness and lukewarm temperature, but kept it anyway, gripping the handle long after his fingers began to ache.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Tap, tap, tappity-tap. Tap, tap, tappity-tap.

He had to choose exactly the right rhythm- obnoxious, but without being so obvious as to excuse a reprimand or sign of annoyance. He had to start thirty seconds in advance of his brother’s approximate arrival, so that it wouldn’t seem blatantly childish or contrived. Just right to keep Mycroft from commenting as his few remaining hairs turned grey on his head.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock.”

He didn’t reply. Let him sigh in exasperation, it wouldn’t do anything to stop him glaring sullenly at the wine glass.

“I trust you’ve had a pleasant stay.”

“The kitchen staff in particular have been very accommodating.”

He looked up, but his brother’s face remained predictably impassive- actually- _damn._

He’d gone to an effort.  Brushed, shined and polished to greasy perfection, scrupulously clean of any details or tells whatsoever, and he couldn’t-read _-anything_. Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration, remembering the hours he had spent as a child, eagerly rattling off to an attentive Mycroft the intricacies of how he saw everything. Finally having someone to listen as he bounced thoughts around the room, appearing interested in the way he saw the world, he was far too naïve to imagine how it would be used against him. When he realised his brother was trying to hide from him, he had retorted ferociously; in an absurd sense of betrayal, he had arranged every room in the house to show _nothing_ of its history or the people that had lived there for years.

Mummy had thought it very sweet, and nearly cried at the thought of her six-year-old son cleaning an entire mansion single-handed.

Mycroft had looked utterly terrified, and after that neither of them ever attempted anything of the sort again.

Until now. It was rather fruitless, since it would have taken him at least two hours, and the absence in itself was telling; he was hiding something.

“My, you do polish up nicely.” He made the statement pointed; _I am not fooled, not for one second, and why now, what are you hiding._

“Sometimes best to start a clean slate, I think.” And that sickening smirk was back, along with the slight nasal twinge in his voice.

Tap, tap, tappity-tap.

A member of staff _(Yorkshire terrier ingrown toenail second year working)_ presented them with their dinner; a pork lasagne for Sherlock, and a salad for Mycroft.

“Ah yes, the infamous _diet._ Have you been slacking, brother? Or did you just gain an extraordinary appetite for lettuce that caused you to gain six pounds?” He made no effort to conceal his smirk. This was one weakness he was going to exploit for all it was worth.

“So Sherlock, do you intend to pick up another sidekick, or will you foray back into the life of a ‘consulting detective’ alone?”

“It’s a real job title.”

“You thinking it up and calling yourself it doesn’t make it real.”

“John wasn’t my sidekick, he was my assistant. I’m not a superhero, Mycroft, merely exceptional at my job.”

“No, you wouldn’t do anything as ridiculous as jumping off roof tops to save peoples’ lives.”

Tap, tap, tappity-tap.

“You will need to find another flat eventually, Sherlock.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then, by all means, take residence in one of the four houses in Greater London that you are entitled to, rather than as good as handing them over to squatters.”

“They make better use of it than any of us ever would. Five people staying in the space that we would allocate to one. And they’re very useful.”

“Then my point still stands. Where do you intend to live?”

He hadn’t… thought about that. He had been almost desperate with the need to sink his teeth into a new puzzle, get back into the game, have a purpose other than _don’t be seen_ \- but now he’d rather lost his taste.

“Maybe I’ll retire.” He made a show of giving it thought, propping his feet up on the chair next to him, taking a huge deal of pleasure in the shudder from Mycroft.

“You could never do that.”

“I could do anything that I wanted.”

“Apart from, apparently, being a reasonable adult and getting on with your life when you’re forced to accept the harsh reality that normal people won’t be able to follow you forever.”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

“John might come around.” It was petulant, the need to refute every statement that he made, but worth it to see Mycroft’s hands tightening gradually around the cutlery.

“He has made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing more to do with you, Sherlock.”

“Then someone _else_ will, Mycroft.” He tried to disguise raising his voice as emphasis, not emotion, but that whole _raised eyebrow_ thing that he knew for a fact Mycroft had spent hours practising in front of a mirror-

“If you are to attempt to gain the doctor’s trust again-“

“There is no trust to regain. He’s just angry. It makes sense to give him some space. I will find somewhere to stay in London, if it is required to carry on my case work. In the unlikely event that our paths happen to cross again, it is probable that he will have cooled enough to be civil. We need not force meetings or even conversations. He will stay away from me, and in respect for his wishes I shall do the same. And so it will remain. He was a welcome distraction, but not necessary for my work.”

The eyebrow climbed higher, and he could feel himself being pushed, but-

“If anything, he was becoming cumbersome. He did not show proper respect for my work inside Baker Street; I once caught him ruining what would have been a wonderful batch of catgut strings, and he took up space in the fridge with vegetables we never used and too many microwave meals. He ran slightly slower than me, slept too much, and showed a ludicrous need for companionship beyond myself. My effectiveness and speed at work will most likely take a boost from his absence.”

“That’s a shame.”

He was pulling something out of his pocket. Keys? That was ridiculous, surely Mycroft knew that he would never stay in a flat picked by him. Mycroft slid them across the table, the grating setting Sherlock’s teeth on edge, and what point was he trying to make? His brother loved quality furniture more than Eton mess-

But he recognised the sequence on the key from three mornings ago, surely not…

“Being civil isn’t going to cut it, Sherlock. For all our sakes, _make this work._ ” The last was said in almost a whisper, and then his brother was gone, leaving nothing but asparagus and a lingering tinge of smugness.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this week, apologies. I'll update again as soon as I'm able, but exams are getting hellish, so I can't make any promises. I'll edit here if it's going to be any longer than two weeks.
> 
> Chapter title from the [Arctic Monkeys song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLsBJPlGIDU) of the same name
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! Also for sticking with me through slower updates. Should become weekly eventually :) As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Have a lovely day, now.
> 
> -Edit-
> 
> The Universe doesn't want me to update this fic. But I will stay strong! Essentially, turns out I'm away Friday to Sunday. So could be a bit longer. But it is BEING WRITTEN.


	5. I Haven't Got My Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. It's been so long, don't look at me *hides head in shame*
> 
> This chapter is half-length, I know, but it's been half length for _ages_ and is proving a veritable nightmare to finish. It comes to a break quite nicely, and the second half is underway, so I just want to post this... as a reassurance that this fic is NOT abandoned. Hopefully this will provide me with some motivation to finish the second half.
> 
> Sorry so sorry for the hiatus... and enjoy!

_Why. Why had Mycroft done this, why had he agreed to it, why, why, why._

It was irrational, but the same thoughts kept cycling through his head, and his stomach felt like it was churning as the cab rounded another corner he would have to cut that loose thread on his scarf before he ended up unravelling it and why, why, _why_ , when it was so clear that he was not wanted, when he had four houses in London alone and he was certain Mycroft could have quoted their postcodes, when he was trying to distance himself from people because this was exactly how Moriarty had got him last time and-

He’s dead-

It was _John’s_ flat, he’d made that very clear, and he didn’t want to share a flat with someone who’d been blackmailed into enduring his company! Mycroft probably hadn’t experienced any sort of relationship in 20 years so what made him think he had the right or knowledge to interfere with this, of all the manipulating, conniving, pompous gits to have as a sibling-

But he’d be there soon and this wasn’t achieving anything. This didn’t bode well for his focus once he started work again, he needed practise… but cabs were so boring…

_Two people sick in last month, back left tire needs changing by Monday, head of clothing store taking a mistress home, wife in Hawaii, one child, three teenagers two nights ago, girl drank too much vodka and boys drank too much beer, retired woman with a great dane, a five-year-old and her overworked father, someone with a peanut allergy-_

“This is your road, mate.”

“Yes.”

“Need any help w’ the bags?”

“I can manage.” He tuned out the cabbie, taking a deep breath and reminding himself that he was the only reason John had ever set foot in the flat.

The taxi pulled up in front of 221B, and he faltered a little to see the doctor waiting outside- just as he had been four years ago, when they first looked at the flat together. Where would he be now if the flat hadn’t been to John’s taste, or if he’d decided that another human to manoeuvre around would be too distracting? John probably wished that had been the outcome every day.

Would it have been better if he’d broke off their acquaintanceship, informed a long-suffering Mike _(he really should call)_ that he was perfectly capable of living alone? He wouldn’t be here, would he, half-starved and jumping at shadows and _concerned_ about another’s opinion, worrying that-

“Are you getting out?”

And yes, he was stalling again. Embarrassment curled through him, and he was ridiculously grateful that he never blushed. It would be the icing on the cake to the picture he must present John with now, as he awkwardly clambered out the cab stuffing a fifty into the driver’s hand _(Mycroft won’t miss it)_ , determined not to look at him as he got out his suitcase, and the walk was too short, he was in front of John in a couple of steps _shit_ -

“Hello.”

Couldn’t even do that one right, this was far too reminiscent of their second meeting and oh he was looking at his shoes again.

“Just caught me on my way back in. Give me a minute.”

It was too forced. Too empty. This was _John_. It shouldn’t be like this. It never was, even when they first met; there were too many differences, clashes of opinion, short tempers to allow for awkward silences. And now they’d lived together, they knew each other. He had no reason to be worried. They would just slip back into the old routine.

It was in this spirit that he impatiently pushed John out of the way when he took too long, and unlocked the door himself with keys that he’s been holding through his coat pocket for the whole journey. As John took a startled step back he breezed in with something of his signature (admittedly now false) bravado, practically skipping up the steps in a masterful display of indifference. He was the picture of ease and grace as he threw open the door, wasting no time in dropping onto the sofa- ow. That had clearly grown more comfortable in his memory- his _spine_ -

The slam of the door caused him to look up from assessing his injuries. Ah. John’s face had taken on a somewhat… thunderous quality. But he had often looked like that in their time together, and nothing sinister had ever come of it. Perhaps this was a token of forgiveness, a sign that everything was back to normal? Maybe he would make a cup of tea, get out the take-away menus and give an exasperated but perceptibly fond huff as he settled into his armchair for the night-

Or maybe he would sit at the desk with his hands curled into fists and his back ramrod-straight, pointedly looking anywhere but Sherlock.

The tension was tangible. He swore he could feel it, like a string from his middle, crackling with electricity as the room filled with the silence of _what to do now_. Normally he deferred to John in social matters, but he got the feeling this was a new experience for both of them…

Small-talk? Could he really resort to that? Would he have to manufacture conversation in the hope that something resembling their old banter would return? He had never really understood the point in communication without a goal or any real interest; in his experience it merely heightened the awkwardness, as good as an admission by both parties that yes, they would rather be anywhere than here, in this situation…

“When is Mrs Hudson returning?” Solid ground, and he actively cared for the answer. He was concerning himself with nothing, this was easy.

“Two days.” John’s voice dripped with acid, his jaw tight and shoulders tense, and here they were back at square one. Sherlock sighed, then wished he could take it back as it sounded like a foghorn in the suffocating quiet. He decided to lie absolutely still. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he attempted to achieve something like the meditative state this settee had proved ideal for. However, it eluded him completely; every time he was on the edge of shutting out his surroundings, he was pulled back by an errant thought wondering at John’s reaction.

After fifteen minutes he gave up, turning on his side to gaze over at the desk. John was bent over his computer, and now that he let the stimuli of his surroundings filter back in he could hear the persistent _tap, tap, tap_ that spoke of typing abilities phenomenal in their ineptitude. For months, he had sworn it would drive him slowly insane; he had made a habit of leaving a different leaflet for typing courses on John’s pillow every night, bookmarking websites on his laptop (BBC dance mat had been a particular favourite), even circled advertisements in the paper. Eventually, in one of the only shows of pettiness in their acquaintanceship, John had carved out the keyboard to Sherlock’s laptop with his _favourite_ scalpel and poured tea over its mangled corpse so it couldn’t be reattached.

Sherlock had learned to accept the typing, and had even come to find it soothing… but now it put his teeth on edge, and he was strongly resisting the urge to upend John’s chair and attack the laptop with his harpoon _(good to see that remained, it would be tiresome to replace, though hard to imagine where it had factored into life as a GP)_. It occurred to him that John was probably experiencing a significantly worse version of this; he had perhaps understated his “interesting quirks” (that nanny hadn’t lasted long) on their first meeting.

However, his flatmate seemed to be ignoring him now. Some of the tension had leaked out the room… If this was the best solution, so be it. Rising suddenly, he decided to take a more thorough look around the flat. Not that a cursory glance hadn’t been enough to tell him everything about his three-year absence, but it would be interesting to see what remained in the cupboards. He had accepted that none of his experiments would be salvageable, though it was with a pang that he let go the 18 month investigation into the effects of various bacteria in dog stomachs. No need to discount any of his lab equipment, though; it was more obviously valuable than his actual scientific pursuits, John wouldn’t have thrown them away-

“We gave your chemistry set to St. Barts. Turns out most of it was theirs anyway.”

Right.

“Am I going to need to change the locks, by the way? Or are your breaking-and-entering skills superior to the petty thieves of London?”

That was ridiculous.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

From the way John bristled, he gathered that hadn’t been the right thing to say.

“Oh, thank God for that, my saviour. You know, if it weren’t for Mrs Hudson’s protection, I don’t think I’d have survived these past few years.”

“I wasn’t-“

“Yeah, whatever.”

And he turned away. How was he meant to explain if John started ignoring him again? Did he not want an apology? Had he accepted that he was overreacting? Perhaps it would take a while for John to readjust to living with someone who was always _(inconsistency so small as to be redundant)_ right. Sighing again, he made his way towards his old bedroom. He heard John catch his breath as he entered _(door needs oiling could have destroyed a microscopic civilisation on that handle)_ , but it was so quiet that he pretended not to notice.

It was almost as he’d left it. Here, at least, there had been very little change. He closed the door behind him immediately, and allowed himself a second to adjust to the dark, a gap in the curtains letting in a sliver of pale light.

He could make out his bedside table, piled high with dissertations and one book on impressionism that John had bought him after a case, with an interesting pigeon feather as a bookmark. His wardrobe was open, one of his dressing gowns draped over the door, but other than that his clothes had clearly been removed some time ago. He would have to unpack his suitcase… later, because now as the room became clearer he could see the threads and drawing pins still covering the walls from his last cases, pictures and newspaper cuttings and highlighted paragraphs in torn out book pages all connected by threads of red , black and blue , criss-crossing up to the ceiling in some places and here, finally, there were vestiges of structure, some foundations on which to rebuild his technique, his focus. It would be most efficient to construct a new mind palace, perhaps one based on a more abstract location than Baker Street to keep him on his toes. The current one was verging on useless anyway, dusty from neglect and coming apart at frayed edges. But this was soothing, this room with mapped thought processes which no longer required any thought to follow, clear in the cool darkness. A sign that not everything was lost to his absence. Brilliance and puzzle solving, impassive companions to the very end.

He fell backwards onto the bed, dust flying up and resettling on the cream covers. The silence is calming rather than strained now, the lack of stimuli providing the ideal conditions to begin a gradual restoration-

The door. Lestrade. He wasn’t ready. Was he? No, it was too soon- for what, exactly? He had leads, possible answers, endless threads and pins to replace the ones he could easily tear down in a moment, but the peace he had felt-

Was irrational, and not something to cling on to. He got up as he heard John answer the door, straightening his suit- he would wait a second, wait to hear-

“Greg,” and that was enough, he could revisit guilt later, pushed back by the knowledge that John had not been alone.

Sherlock sauntered into the lounge, Lestrade giving him a nod and a resigned smile from over John’s shoulder. John hesitated for a moment, half turned to face him, before walking to the kitchen. He heard the click of the kettle.

“Hi. Er…” Lestrade cast a glance between him and John. _Don’t say anything don’t say anything-_

Mercifully, he shrugged and went to sit down, awkwardly stopping halfway into Sherlock’s chair before settling on the sofa.

“So I know you’re just back, but I’m going to be blunt- we need you, Sherlock. We’ve got nothing on this case. And if anyone would be recklessly eager to get back on the horse I thought it would be you, so-“

“Where is the fourth murder?”

“Er…” He looked around as if for assistance, and Sherlock could see it all beginning to come back as the inspector took on a slight look of despair. _Yes, I am that good._ “Well, we, er- don’t you want me to bring you up to date?”

Sherlock smirked, raising an eyebrow. “I do not bluff. I have a link between the victims, as I indicated at that farce of a press conference-“

“It wasn’t a farce until you butted in!”

“”Your grandma might be a serial killer.””

“I was having a bad week.”

There was a force behind those words, a tone that brooked no argument, and there was a pause.

Then Lestrade sighed.

“Vic’s in New Addington. Chef, early forties- a Mark Bloom, killed in his own restaurant. With one of his own carving knives, no less, and with an apparently promising career ahead of and behind him, based on reviews and a cursory glance at his files. I don’t know what you’re looking for, Sherlock, but we’ve got the crime scene sealed and if we leave now we should make it before the forensics muck anything up to badly.”

A walk in the park. Nice and low-key, to get things started.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Lestrade grinned and sprung to his feet, before hesitating and glancing towards the kitchen.

The kettle had long since boiled, and John stood facing away from them, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. At the silence he turned around, and gave an empty smile to find them both looking at him. There was a hard edge behind his eyes that Sherlock was beginning to worry he would have to get used to.

“I’ll be here. I’ll get takeaway, leave some in the fridge if you’re back late. Have fun.”

But he was meant to come with them. He always had, every case since he’d moved in-

“Come on,” Lestrade spoke quietly, but Sherlock kept staring at John’s back as he pointedly looked through the menus. If they weren’t going to talk or work together, then what exactly-

Lestrade tapped him on the arm and he turned away, letting a sigh escape as he shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Well, I'm glad that's out there. I might add the second half onto this chapter when I complete it- you can follow my [fanfic blog](http://www.doesmysassynessoffendyou.tumblr.com) for updates. Chapter title from the [Arctic Monkeys song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9yrz_psfLc) of the same name.
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience. I'd be throwing cabbages around now... but I'll try for more regular updates! This is a new leaf. Ahem.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Have a lovely day, now.
> 
> *Edit*
> 
> Yeah OK give me the medal for procrastination... Clearly this isn't going to be finished now- many, many things happened before Sherlock series 3,but this fic was not one of them. It's already partially irrelevant, and about to become much more so. It ended up becoming more about Reichenbach than I really wanted it to anyway. So this is going to be it... but I do want to write another fic that will be slightly more timeless. New Year's Resolution, perhaps. This has given me a lot of ideas, and actual confidence to put my writing up here, so a huge thanks to everyone who read it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from the Arctic Monkeys album of the same name.  
> [My blog is here](http://www.doesmysassynessoffendyou.tumblr.com), any important writing updates will be posted as I go (blog has changed since first link!).


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